


Do Actors Dream of Purely Decorative Sheep?

by Anonymous



Category: British Actor RPF, Good Omens (TV) RPF, Staged (TV 2020)
Genre: Actors, Banter, Bisexuality, Consensual Infidelity, Cooking, Enthusiastic Consent, Friends to Lovers, Kissing, M/M, Open Relationships, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Pining, Porn with Feelings, RPF, Romance, Sheep
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:09:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25671847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “Okay, so what’s going on with you today?” David pokes a finger at him accusingly. “Didn’t sleep last night? You seem out of sorts.”“Do I?” Michael takes a sip of his tea, frowns in distaste to find it’s gone cold. “It’s nothing.”“Oh, it’s most definitely not nothing. Come on, spill it. Tell your fairy godmother.” His voice goes high on the last bit, and Michael chuckles.“It was just a dream I had.”“A bad one?”“One the contrary. It was about you.”Michael has a dream. Question is, what happens if David offers to make it a reality?
Relationships: Michael Sheen/David Tennant
Comments: 68
Kudos: 173
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a collaborative, purely self-indulgent effort. We have no idea how long it will be but expect at least another chapter or two. Enjoy!

They’re on Zoom again, though preparation and filming for Staged is over. Maybe it’s become a little bit of a habit. Michael hasn’t gone more than a day without talking to David in months. He’s gotten accustomed to having his webcam on at length, to hearing David going about his day and to do the same on his end, to sit and talk about the banal tedium of quarantine, the small triumphs that happen on occasion, like when Tesco finally started carrying loo roll again. 

Most days it’s fine. Normal. Nothing out of the ordinary. But last night . . . well, he’s still a bit hung up on a dream he’d had. He’d blame a certain scene in a certain script for putting the idea in his head in the first place, but he’s never been very good at lying to himself. Still, it’s got him a bit wrong-footed, seeing David after. 

It must show. 

“Okay, so what’s going on with you today?” David pokes a finger at him accusingly. “Didn’t sleep last night? You seem out of sorts.” 

“Do I?” Michael takes a sip of his tea, frowns in distaste to find it’s gone cold. “It’s nothing.” 

“Oh, it’s most definitely not nothing. Come on, spill it. Tell your fairy godmother.” His voice goes high on the last bit, and Michael chuckles. 

“It was just a dream I had.”

“A bad one?”

“One the contrary. It was about you.” 

“Oh, is that all? I dream about you all the time. Wait, is that weird?” 

Michael wasn’t expecting that. Compulsively he reaches for his tea again but it’s as cold as it was before. “What sort do you have?” 

“Oh, all sorts,” David says, with an airy wave. 

“Hmm,” Michael replies, pursing his lips. 

David is wearing his grey hoodie, even though Michael is certain he promised Georgia that he’d burn it. He keeps pulling on the strings and bringing them to his mouth. The man has the kind of oral fixation that could drive another man to distraction. “What kind was yours?” 

“Well, it was a little bit naughty.” 

“A little bit naughty? What is that like--” He sees the exact moment realisation dawns on David’s face and he clamps his lips on the string. “--you mean like a sex dream?”

“I mean not... fully.” 

“But partially? You had a partial sex dream about me?”

“I woke up before I got to the good bit!”

"You have to tell me everything now! You can't just leave me hanging like this." 

Michael arches an eyebrow. "Well, there was no hanging involved, I'll give you that much."

"I was naked!" David seems thrilled, far more so than Michael expected him to be.

“We both were,” Michael says. “Would’ve been weird otherwise wouldn’t it. More of a strip show than a liaison.”

“Oh it’s a liaison? Fancy.”

David is giving him another sort of look, and Michael’s stomach squirms with nerves and something else. He affects a nonchalant smile. “You’re imagining me naked right now aren’t you?”

“I am doing no such thing.” 

“If your psyche wants to give me the once over, that’s fine with me.”

There’s no real reply to that, so they just look at each other. Or they both look at screens with the replication of each other, which is what made talking about this so easy in the first place.

David starts twirling one strand of long hair around his finger, and Michael stretches, his shirt lifting to show a bit of belly. It’s no secret he’s gotten a bit of a paunch in the last couple of years, but he feels more at home in his skin than he ever did before, as a young actor greedy for praise and more than a little self conscious. “So what about you?” He finally says to break the silence. “You said you dreamed about me.”

David blows air out of his mouth. “Just standard stuff really. We might be shopping and we can’t find the bananas or we might be in a hotel bar talking or...” he pauses, pressing his lips together. “There was one,” he says, “where we were sort of... in a restaurant.” 

His hesitation doesn’t seem to match up with the words, so Michael says, “a restaurant?” 

“Yeah. You know.” David does another airy wave, although it comes across a lot less genuinely airy than the last one. “Sort of a date kind of restaurant.”

“Maybe you were just hungry,” Michael offers. 

David does it again, eyes a little glazed as if he’s lost in the memory. 

“What did we order?” Michael asks, in part just to keep talking about it but also to help him picture it, to see if the candles on the table were in David’s mind too. 

“You had gnocchi,” David says. “And I said I didn’t want that and got a salad, but when yours arrived I did want it and you--” He leans in a little. “Well you let me try yours.”

“Did I hold the fork out to you?" Michael bites his lower lip, stifling his nervous laugh. David is funny about that sort of thing in real life. He's not the sort to sample something off your plate or to share his own food. He doesn't even like his meat to touch his veg. 

David looks upward. "Yeah. Actually." 

Michael clucks. "What would Freud say?"

“Something about you being a substitute for my mother probably,” David says, running a hand through his hair. His hands are always moving. They’re lovely. “I don’t think it means anything. Do you?” 

“I think it means something,” Michael says. “But I’d say it’s rather more literal.” 

“You mean I just wanted gnocchi?”

"Not gnocchi per se. . ." Michael trails off, gives a quiet whistle. 

"You're saying I had a coded sex dream about you. Gnocchi is a thinly veiled metaphor for your body?" 

"I've been compared to worse."

“So you think secretly I want to cover you in truffle oil or... cheese sauce or something and... put you in my mouth?” David’s forehead crinkles, as if he’s really considering whether or not this is some deep psychological revelation. 

Michael has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing. "Only you can answer that question, David." He leans forward a little, conspiratorially. Even through the distance between them, he feels that hum of electricity - chemistry - that always sparks when they get like this. It makes his blood run more quickly, makes him feel alive. 

David gives him a steady look. "Wait a minute. You're deflecting. You're the one who had an actual sex dream!"

Michael roars with laughter. “My psyche has never taken much decoding,” he says. 

He thinks David hums, although it might be the noise of the fridge or the traffic outside, since that’s a thing again. 

“So,” David says, a little too deliberately, “you’re saying that’s something you’d be into? In a non-dream scenario?”

Michael strokes his beard. “It’s not beyond the realms of possibility I’ve thought about it during waking hours too,” he says.

"Well, that's a thing." David doesn't sound disapproving, though. 

"It's out there." 

"Definitely out there." 

"With those trousers you wear, who could blame me?"

“Ohohoh,” David says. “No, you don’t get to blame my clothing for your own thoughts.” 

“Fine. I take full responsibility.” 

David does something with his face that’s remarkably close to a smirk before dragging his hair across his lip again. It looks incredibly soft and silky. Michael can imagine what it must feel like brushing against the sensitive skin, and he licks his own lips. "Does that bother you?" 

"Not really. It's flattering. And . . ." He hesitates a little. "The thought might have also crossed my mind."

"It would be interesting, perhaps," Michael says, "to see if we had the same thoughts about it."  
He's 90% sure he's said that exact thing about scenes back when they first met, when they both danced around having an actual opinion for fear of treading on each other's toes.

David clears his throat. “Yeah, ah--would be.” 

Michael waits, and the moment stretches out. It’s just about to become too awkward when David continues, “It was Aziraphale’s fault. The first time I wanted to kiss you. That day we filmed in the bookshop and you were so in character, you almost cried when you spilled coffee on your damn waistcoat.” 

It flashes through Michael’s head, the exact day he means. The set had been uncooperative, lights blowing so often one of the production crew joked about the place being haunted for real. David had gestured to the sigal scrawled on the floor under the rug and made a joke about if anyone had checked whether Neil had made it up or borrowed it from a book of actual witchcraft. “Maybe we’ve summoned something,” David said, meeting his eye, “with a sacrificial spillage of coffee. Or awakened, I should say, since it’s caffeine.”

He doesn’t remember wanting to kiss David any more than usual that day, but now, he fancies there was some extra spark in David’s eye, some extra effort in his casual jokes, and quite a lot less floor between them than was strictly necessary when they weren’t trying to stay in shot. 

“That’ll spice up the press release,” Michael said, flicking the coffee droplets off his costume. 

David very sweetly asked if his waistcoat was ok or they should go to wardrobe to sponge it out, if Michael recalls correctly. He kicks himself for saying no. If David wanted to kiss him and they’d been alone, who knows what would’ve happened. 

“Your turn,” David says. 

With a thunk somewhere underneath his sternum, Michael realises he didn’t think this through. While David has Aziraphale as a buffer, Michael does not. In truth he’s fancied David since he glimpsed him across catering on an entirely different set, so many years ago he wouldn’t want to count them. Fleeting thing, he’d thought, but it had turned out to be the kind of fleeting which kept returning and had Michael scanning the TV listings for David’s name when LA was too much and home too far away. 

“You remember the read through?” Michael says. 

“Naturally.” 

“Wouldn’t have minded a little footsie under the table,” he says. 

He watches David’s reaction. Little nod of consideration, another murmur that may or may not be the fridge. And that’s all it takes for Michael to be sure that David knows he’s lying. 

“Anyway,” Michael says. “I’d better go, actually. It’s almost snack time.” 

David makes his sulky face, toying with the string of his hoodie, but he says, “Ok. I’ll call you tomorrow?”

Michael nods and waves, turns off the camera. He feels very alone when the screen goes dark, and he sits there for a moment, then leans back in his chair and very quietly says, “Shit.”

*

Thanks to quarantine, Michael’s phone history is full of things he’d rather no-one ever knew he’d Googled, but even on a list containing ‘can you really cook and eat your own semen?’ from the dark period when the Ocado website went down, ‘how to move on when you had ANOTHER sex dream about a co-worker’ stands out as the real shame-maker.

The Wiki-How was sadly lacking in anything resembling real help, and after that he fell down a Cosmo hole and ended up reading some dream analysis guff about David having three traits he must admire. David having an excessively lovely face seemed the more likely cause to Michael, but maybe that’s why he’s an actor and not a psychologist. 

Unfortunately Michael doesn’t have time to scour the bowels of the internet for anything more useful, because David’s ringing. Michael rearranges his hair and then answers, trying to fix his face into that of a man who hasn’t spent a good portion of the last eight hours imagining his mouth on David’s body.

“Morning,” David says. He’s in the garden, which at least opens up the possibility they can talk about the weather and if David got around to pruning the rose bushes after talking about it on and off for three weeks, rather than any of the things cascading through Michael’s head. 

“Oh it looks nice there,” Michael says. “Pissing down here.”

“Let me see?”

Obligingly Michael turns his laptop towards the window, where rivulets of water are competing to see which one of them can fuck up the paintwork on the frames the most. 

“Do the garden good, that,” David says. “You alright?”

“Spiffy,” Michael says, because of course David would be kind enough to give him an out for talking about the day before while leaving the door open. He thinks their friendship is strong enough to withstand the awkwardness, but he considers what to say next carefully, not sure he really does want to move on. After all, didn’t David confess to wanting to kiss him? Sure, as Crowley - but it’s something. “You?” 

“Oh, grand, grand.” His head is leaning on his hand, and he gives Michael a sort of half-smile through the fan of his fingers. 

“Any dreams?” Michael says before he can stop himself. 

“Not sure. Got woken up in the middle of one that seemed pleasant. Can’t remember the details.” 

“How do you know it was pleasant?” 

David arches an eyebrow, and Michael flushes with heat as he realises the implication. An image flashes through his mind - of David, in bed, his erection straining the front of his briefs. He’s momentarily at a loss for words. And then comes out with, “Oh. I see.” 

“You asked,” David says, his tone still light. Maybe he can sense that Michael is not handling this as well as he might. 

“I did, didn’t I.” Michael smiles, trying for carefree. “Well, that’s always a nice way to start the day.” Utterly rubbish, he is. 

“Can be, under the right circumstances. Not in a house with a million children.” 

“Ten thousand children, I think is what you have.” 

“Feels like more.” David brushes his hair back from his face and lets out a tired sigh. “I need a holiday.” 

Michael’s stomach churns with nervous excitement. He isn’t entirely sure, but he thinks he’s being given an opening. “I’ll be on my own next week.” 

The moment that follows is approximately ten years long. David stays so still on screen that Michael wonders if the camera on his laptop has frozen until a pigeon lands on the fence behind him. Almost-but-not-quite inviting the subject of your sex dream to stay with you was definitely not in the Cosmo article on how to deal with sex dreams about co-workers. Michael floats, adrift in his own suggestion, and he feels like he might actually drown in it until David says, “Oh.”

It’s a pitchy oh, one that would indicate pleased surprise in any circumstance other than it occurring a full ten years after the thing which inspired it. 

“Is that allowed?” David says, brow furrowing. “I mean--you’ve different regulations, I’ve completely lost track.”

“Hang on,” Michael says, and with his brain wheeling through fuck fuck what the fuck, he pulls up the government website. “Seems to be,” he says, although in fairness he hasn’t read a single word; the page is still loading because his country internet can’t handle Zoom and anything else at the same time. 

“Right,” David says. “So--I could come for the day?”

“Or--several,” Michael says. “It’s a long drive. There’s plenty of room.”

David nods, as if that actually were the chief concern here. “Would be nice to have a change of scenery,” he says. 

“Just bring your wellies,” Michael says. “The welcome might be warm but the weather is changeable.” 

David looks right at him through the camera for the first time in the entire conversation. “You should sell that to the tourist board,” he says. “Cracking slogan, that.” 

“Maybe I will. Maybe they’ll put my face on a poster--or one of those signs on the border. Welcome to Wales, from Michael Sheen.” 

David rests his chin on his hand, considering something, and for a second Michael thinks David will explain he can’t really get away because there’s kids to herd to piano lessons over Skype and the dog to walk. “How’s Tuesday?” he says. 

“Fine,” Michael says. “I’ll order some wine and warm up the welcome.” 

It is, without doubt, the cheesiest, most tragic thing he’s ever said, but David chuckles and says, “I’ll see you then, then.”

*

The next few days drag, until they fly, and Michael finds himself waiting nervously on Tuesday afternoon for the arrival of David, who he has only heard from over occasional text since the visit was proposed. Each day, he was sure David would beg off for one reason or another. He was so certain of the cancellation that, in spite of the wine purchases and the extra food - the cheddar David likes, his favorite tea - his stomach swoops when he hears the crunch of car tires on gravel, the engine cutting off. He puts down the book he was pretending to read and rises with sweaty palms.

It’s a bit past three, right when David told him he’d be arriving. It has to be him, and yet Michael can hardly believe it when he opens the door to find David, bag slung on his shoulder, standing there with his hair in a high, spiky ponytail.

“Hiya,” David says. 

Michael smiles at him. “I see you’ve dressed for the occasion.” David is wearing his favored shorts and grey sweatshirt, a pair of Converse trainers on his feet. 

“The wellies are in the boot. I brought some wine, too, but it’s terrible. Best just leave it in there for now until we get desperate.” 

Michael swings the door open further. “Come on in. Lighten your load.” 

It’s the first time David has been in his home; he’s been to David’s a couple of times during Good Omens filming and after, but this is out of the way. One has to make an effort. And David has made it, to see him. To get away, too, perhaps; it’s been a long few months and god knows they’re both eager for some new company. 

David yawns, swings his bag off his shoulder and stretches his long arms up over his head. He shakes himself a little and scrubs his hands over his face. Michael watches him with bemusement. “How was the drive?”

“Not bad. A few lorries driving like arseholes. Made good time, though.” 

“It’s really good to see you,” Michael says, because it really is. His eyes feel greedy, taking in every movement, every little familiar tic. 

“You too.” David comes closer, stops when they’re about a foot apart. There’s a bit of an awkward pause, then they both move to embrace. David smells like coffee with a faint trace of cologne - a musky, clean scent that Michael makes an effort not to inhale too obviously. They’re both huggers by nature, but they linger a little longer than necessary. It’s Michael who loosens his grip first, not wanting to seem overeager. He’s still not entirely sure that they are on the same page regarding why David is here, but there is time to find out. 

“Shall I give you the tour? Or shall we go straight to drinking in the garden?” 

“Both?” David says. “I’ll be much more attentive to the trees and sheep with a glass in my hand.” 

Michael gestures to the coat stand where he can deposit his bag and waves him into the kitchen. 

“Oh this is very rustic,” David says, taking in the rough stone walls and the jumble of postcards and photos pinned to the aging fridge with the kind of magnets you only ever see in the tackiest gift shops. He goes over to the window. “Is this the plant you were telling me about?” 

He pokes at the hanging planter containing what they eventually decided, after three or four days of googling, is some sort of fern. Michael had been terribly concerned about how unhappy it looked and David had read him passages from various gardening websites to persuade him all it needed was a drink, and then asked for daily updates on its progress. “She’s made a full recovery,” he says.

Michael opens the fridge and fishes out a bottle of wine. He opens it and pours two large glasses, handing one to David. “Cheers,” David says, and clinks his against Michael’s. “What?”

“It’s just strange to see you in three dimensions,” Michael says, which isn’t it at all. He’s staring because he’d forgotten how David makes his stomach flip and all sorts of things flit through his head. Things that felt a lot less spikey when there were hundreds of miles between them. “You have depth. It’s disconcerting.” 

David chuckles and takes a sip of his wine. 

The rain has decided to take a break so Michael unlocks the French doors that lead out. He can’t take any credit for the garden since mostly he just lets it do what it wants to, but he knows that its stone stepping stones and abundant rambling rose bushes have a certain charm. They amble through the long grass to what would be a vegetable patch if Michael could be bothered to plant anything in it, where the potatoes the previous owner threw in there are sprouting up massive leaves which he knows from bitter experience produce a handful of tiny very woody potatoes. He points out the bird nests and the annoying nettles he can’t get rid of and the tree with the face in. At the end of the garden they pause, David peering out over the hedgerow to the fields, where sheep are not so much frolicking as ignoring them entirely. The sky is showing off, fluffy clouds straight out of a cartoon dotting the horizon and a deep blue rolling above.

“Maybe it’s just that I’ve been staring at the same four walls for five months,” David says, “but that really is magnificent.”

He turns and smiles and Michael has an almost overwhelming urge to kiss him.

Whatever he’s feeling must be reflected in his eyes, because David glances down at his lips, his smile softening. Michael feels so nervy he’s about to vibrate out of his skin. “I’m glad you could come. Know it must’ve been hard to get away.” 

“It’s not every day I get invited to an idyllic Welsh paradise by a handsome Welsh host.” 

“Bah,” Michael says, face warming in spite of himself. “Flattery will get you everywhere.” 

“Will it?” David lifts an eyebrow. 

“Are you flirting with me?” 

“You know, I think I am. That’s okay, isn’t it?” David looks slightly flustered. “I think we’ve been talking around this, but maybe we should just come out and say it. Regarding the non-dream scenario. This is it, right? Or have I got the wrong end of the stick?” 

Michael clears his throat, his heart beating wildly. He feels slightly sick, but in a good way. There’s a joke in there about holding sticks and such, but for once he avoids the low-hanging fruit. “I didn’t know if you were serious. I don’t know what you have going on, at home, whether this kind of thing is on the table.” 

“You mean with Georgia? She knows why I’m here. What about you?” 

“We’ve had discussions. It’s not an issue.”

“Okay, well. Good.” David looks like he might want to say something else, but takes a swallow of wine instead. His hair is falling down around his face, coming loose from his ponytail. Michael wants to bury his fingers in it. 

“I had a dream last night,” Michael says, stepping closer. 

“What about?” 

“Kissing you in a field, with sheep in the meadow just beyond. Isn’t it curious?” 

“I’m a bit worried about the sheep bit. They weren’t watching, were they?” 

“They were purely decorative.” Michael puts a hand on David’s hip, feels his warmth through the fabric of his shorts. David does the same, only higher up on Michale’s back. Fingers bunch in his t-shirt, and then Michael lifts his head. He’s not ready for the kiss. David presses against him hungrily, his lips demanding yet soft, and Michael opens his mouth to let him in, feeling utterly plundered. He always imagined their first kiss, if it happened, being tentative, exploratory. But this is the kind of kiss that speaks of mutual, pent up desire. It’s the kind of kiss that curls Michael’s toes in his trainers and that silences the fluttering in his belly, replacing it with a deeper, more primal need. 

The wine glasses in their hands pose a problem. Michael considers lobbing his into the field, but he doesn’t want to be responsible for sheep munching on shards of glass.

“Fuck,” he says when they break away, both breathing heavily. David’s eyes are slightly dazed and glassy. His free hand is fiddling with the top of Michael’s trousers, just above the curve of his arse. “You want to--” He glances back towards the house.

“Too far,” David says, and sits, tugging Michael onto the grass beside him. 

Michael rests his wineglass in a convenient divot and uses his hand’s new freedom to push his fingers into David’s hair and bring him closer. David kisses him and Michael’s reminded of the drunken night just after filming finished, where he somehow found himself watching a compilation on YouTube of David kissing people. There’s a quiet intensity to it, the way David’s deliberate and composed, as if he’s very focused on being a nice kisser. Michael leans in, wanting more, wanting to see what lies beneath that, wanting to make him lose his composure, and he’s not sure if he topples or David pulls him off balance, but either way he finds himself pinning David to the grass. 

“Sorry,” he says, but he looks down at David with his ponytail half in and half out and a slight flush underneath his freckles, and he’s absolutely not sorry in the slightest. 

“Come here,” David says, and his voice is low and gruff and sends at least half of Michael’s entire blood supply into his jeans. 

He goes with it, grinding against him slowly as he lowers himself into another kiss, tangling his fingers in David’s hair. It’s as soft as he imagined it, but after a moment he has to break away, kissing down David’s neck to get his breath back. 

David seems to like that. He angles his head back to give Michael better access, and Michael nips along the underside of his jaw, the stubble rough against his lips and tongue. He thinks for a minute about sucking a bruise there, but they’re not in primary school, and as flexible as Georgia seems to be about this, at least according to David, Michael figures leaving visible evidence is probably pushing it. He presses his tongue into the hollow divot at the base of David’s throat and tastes the bit of sweat pooled there. David’s chest hair peeks out tantalisingly from the top of his sweatshirt, which he’s not wearing anything underneath, of course. 

They’re both hard, but neither of them make a move for zips or buttons. The sun has pushed through the clouds, and it’s warm on Michael’s back. David’s neck is flushed a lovely pink shade from where Michael has been kissing him. His hair is all undone. He looks like a debauched prince in a garden, save for the outfit, which is pure Marks and Spencer. 

“How’s this?” he asks, a bit more breathless than he expected. “Are you comfortable?” 

David tugs him closer, licking his lips. “As comfortable as it’s possible to be. Your concern is charming.” 

“Well, I’d hardly be a gentleman if I didn’t ask.” 

“You don’t have to be a gentleman.” David presses his hips up, and they both groan. Then they are kissing again, and David’s arms are around him, hands fisting in the back of his shirt, then moving down to cup his arse encouragingly. It’s quite possible that if they keep going like this, Michael will come in his pants. He’s not exactly sure it’s the way he wants this to go, but he doesn’t have it in him to pull back from David’s drugging kisses. He slips his hand underneath the sweatshirt and rucks it up so he can get at more skin, filing it away when David gasps at his attention to a nipple. He rubs his thumb across the little peak until David is gasping, his hips moving more urgently. 

They are opposite in so many ways, physically, but any concern Michael may have had about David not liking the entire package flies out the window with the way David is kneading at his arse and holding onto him like he can’t get enough. 

He’s just thinking that maybe coming in his pants is the way he wants this to go after all when David breaks away, nipping at his chin. “Like the beard,” David says, more breath than word. “Wasn’t sure I would.”

“Well that’s--” 

David nuzzles his face right into the side of Michael’s beard and the words good to know fly out of Michael’s head. They’re replaced by a whole load of images, things he might be able to do with that information, but it appears what his brain most wants to do with it is put it right next to the sensitivity of David’s nipples. He drags his chin down David’s neck, gratified by how it makes David moan and writhe beneath him. He abandons Michael’s arse in favour of clutching his hair and Michael gives his neck a good going over, teeth and tongue and beard in quick succession. 

“Oh god,” David murmurs, and his fingers tighten in Michael’s hair as Michael scrabbles to get his sweatshirt up under his armpits at the same time as mouthing down over the front of it.

David’s stomach is an irresistible plane that leads his gaze inevitably to where his cock is straining against the jersey of his shorts. He wants to do it all at once, to kiss his skin and see if it’s possible to give someone stubble rash there, to take David’s dick in his mouth and watch him buck against the long grass; he feels dizzy at the thought. He rakes his tongue up over David’s ribs, scrubbing the hair on his chin over the path he’s created. He takes his time, even when David whines and twists his fingers in Michael’s hair, trying to urge him higher. When he finally gets to David’s nipple, he moans around it, getting it nice and wet before exposing it again to the air, brushing his chin over it.

David gasps. “Jesus, Michael,” he says, and when Michael peers up at him over the waves of his sweatshirt, he briefly meets Michael’s eye before dropping his head back into the grass, throat bobbing with how hard he’s breathing. 

He’s not sure about David but Michael can’t take it any longer. He kisses his way down David’s stomach and tugs down his shorts. David lifts his hips obligingly, and after a bit of maneuvering Michael finally gets his hand on David’s cock. 

“Yeah,” David says, mouthing at Michael’s jaw. He’s leaking, and Michael rubs a thumb around the head, smearing the warm wetness there. David responds with a full-body shudder, arching into it, and Michael draws away for a moment to lick his palm, watching David as he does. He has been told by other lovers, sometimes teasingly, sometimes with irritation, that he has a tendency to dominate the proceedings, and in recent years he’s made an effort to check the impulse. He’s conscious of it now, with David underneath him, of his desire to stake his claim, as it were - to take David apart completely. The problem - or perhaps it’s not a problem at all - is that with the way David is responding, he doesn’t think David would mind one jot. 

“God, you’re gorgeous,” he whispers. 

David gives him a little eye roll, but the flush on his chest and throat deepens. “Get on with it, then.” 

He grips David again more firmly and starts to stroke him, a slow measured pace that has his own prick throbbing in sympathy. A gentle breeze rustles the grasses around them, and the sun hides again behind a bank of clouds. It’ll likely rain again soon. This interlude on the damp, soft grass feels somehow stolen, more precious for being so brief. Michael knows he’ll never forget it. 

David won’t last much longer. His cock pulses in Michael’s fist, and Michael kisses down David’s stomach, then takes it into his mouth. David gasps, hands in Michael’s hair, gripping hard, and Michael takes him all of the way down. 

He hasn’t done this in a long time. He’s a bit out of practice, and his eyes water slightly as David hits the back of his throat. He sucks greedily, the urgency building, and David moans and lifts his hips. Michael looks up to find David watching, his eyes fixed, lips bitten, and in only a few more moments David is coming, hot and sticky on Michael’s tongue. 

The hands in his hair slacken, and Michael realises with bemusement cutting through his lust that Daivd is petting him. 

“How’s that for a walk in the garden?” he asks a bit hoarsely. 

“I think the sheep are impressed.” 

“Fuck,” Michael says, pressing a final kiss to the tip of David’s softening prick. He palms himself through his jeans to relieve some of the ache. 

“Can I help with that?” David presses himself up onto his elbows. 

“You bloody better,” Michael says, and David gives off a throaty laugh before kissing him, soft and deep, his hands back in Michael’s hair, scratching lightly against his scalp. 

Michael wonders if hair is some kind of fetish for him, but it’s a fleeting thought as David pulls him back on top of him, trying to get Michael’s trousers down with one of his feet. He manages a few inches before Michael helps him out, getting them down enough to fit his cock to the line of David’s hip. He shifts back and forth there for a moment, enjoying the way David’s kissing him and murmuring encouragement, picking up speed as desire curls in his stomach. 

“Come on me,” David says, right against Michael’s ear, all hot breath and wickedness. “I like it.”

Apparently one orgasm is all it takes to do away with David’s reserve and the words do for what remains of Michael’s stamina. He loses himself to the rhythm of it, burying his face in David’s neck, practically panting against his skin. David’s fingers urge him on, digging into his back to hold him close and working their way down. His waistband finally gives up and slides down his arse, exposing it to the sheep and the sky, and David grabs a handful with a groan of approval, encouraging him to press harder, spurring him on.

It sends Michael over the edge, and he spills between them on David’s stomach with his heart racing. He’s not sure if it starts raining the moment he comes or if it has been for a while and he just hadn’t noticed, but either way, he collapses on David’s chest, waiting for his breathing to level out and relishing the way David’s arms wrap around him, one of his knees trying to get in on the act and nestling into his side too.

It’s a lot of David all at once and he tries to remember precisely how it feels. He doesn’t want to move, but his knees start to protest at being wedged into the ground and every time the breeze whips a fresh batch of goosebumps over his arse, he pictures one of his neighbors looking out of their window and seeing his pasty arse glowing like a full moon. 

He steals another kiss before reluctantly rolling to the side and pulling his trousers back up. David rearranges himself too, his sweater covering both the slight red tint to his skin and the mess Michael made of him. 

“S’raining,” David says.

“I told you to bring your wellies.”

Neither of them, it seems, is inclined to move, to slip out of this moment and into whatever happens next. So they just lie there, on their backs, the rain slowly filling their abandoned wine glasses.

Their knuckles graze against each other, and Michael’s in the middle of wondering what is allowed when David covers his hand with his own. If not for the damp and the certainty there’s a twig in his pants, Michael would be entirely content. He smiles up at the grey sky and gets a mouthful of raindrops for his troubles. He can still taste David, too. 

“This isn’t the kind of post-shag shower I envisioned,” Michael says finally, turning his head to face David. There’s a smear of dirt on David’s cheek and leaves in his hair.

“Definitely colder,” David replies. “And I think my mobile might be in the dirt somewhere.” He pats his pockets absently. 

Michael gives David’s hand a final squeeze and hoists himself to his feet to scan the ground. Between the two of them, they’ve managed to discard a wallet, two mobiles, a hairband, and a packet of mints. With these items resecured, they return to Michael’s house, laughing, dirty and drenched.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, we're back! Thanks to all of those who have left comments and kudos - it's much appreciated.

“There’s a shower in the guest room,” Michael says, not wanting to presume. “It’s lovely. Let me show you the way.” 

David follows him up the stairs and down the hall to the room across from the master. It’s small and cosy, decorated simply in manner befitting a country house. David drops his rucksack at the foot of the bed and immediately begins peeling his clothing off. Michael hesitates in the doorway, unsure.

“I’ll just leave you to it, then,” he says. 

“Aren’t you coming?” Naked, David is all lean lines and beautiful skin. There’s a smattering of freckles on his shoulders, and his back curves gracefully as he looks over his shoulder. Michael doesn’t hesitate for a moment. He peels off his sodden clothes and tosses them in a pile on the floor next to David’s, giving himself a mental reminder to throw them in the wash later. He’s not sure how long David can live without his favorite sweatshirt. 

The en-suite is newly remodeled with a roomy shower and a large whirlpool bath. It’s half the size of the attached bedroom, and David whistles as he looks around. “And here I was thinking I’d be staying in a rustic cottage.” 

“There is an old outhouse in the back garden, if you’re looking for an authentic Welsh experience.” 

“Tempting. But I’d rather have a bath.” 

Michael nods and goes to draw it, feeling slightly self-conscious as he bends over to turn on the tap. His mind, no longer foggy from the aftermath of orgasm, starts to whir again, wondering how this shift in their relationship will continue to play out. Apparently, they are at the comfortable-taking-a-bath-together stage, but Michael isn’t entirely sure he’s as confident as David seems to be. 

“Bubbles?” he asks over his shoulder.

David nods, somehow managing to look dignified standing starkers and leaning, one hip checked against the sink. “Oh yes.”

“I suppose you’re going to insist on having the non-tap end.”

“Well I am the guest,” David says. He hesitates for just a second before adding, “of course we could--you know--spoon. If the taps are a problem.” 

Michael raises one eyebrow to stop his face doing something undignified. “Good thinking,” he says, and gets in while it’s still filling.

The water is more soothing than he thought it would be and he relaxes back against the cool plastic, swooshing the bubbles in invitation. 

David is gratifyingly awkward about maneuvering his long legs over the side and into the bath. As he slides down, his arse flashes in front of Michael’s face in a way that’s exciting and mortifying in equal measure. David settles against him, stretching his toes towards the taps and letting the water pour over them, and as the full weight of his back rests on Michael’s chest, he groans slightly. “You’re a lucky bastard,” he says, and Michael can’t help but agree, although not just because of the fancy bath. 

They shuffle their knees until they’re both comfortable enough, and Michael lets his gaze roam over the back of David’s neck and the side of his face, down to the freckles on his shoulders and the rise and fall of the muscles in his arm.

“You know what’s missing?” Michael says, lifting a soapy hand to lightly trace from shoulder to elbow. 

“Wine.”

Michael smiles at how in tune they apparently are. “And a butler to bring it to us,” he says.

“Next time.” David works himself lower on Michael’s chest, his knees making hills above the water, bubbles sliding down over his leg hair. 

The implication that there could be a next time clouds out all Michael’s other thoughts. He ducks down and rests his lips on the slope of David’s shoulder in a not quite kiss. “You’ll handle the interviews?” he says. 

“Of course. You want attentive to the point of over-eagerness or the traditional stand-offish type?” 

Michael murmurs in faux consideration against his skin. “Stand-offish enough to leave us alone when we want to be alone. Attentive enough to bring us strawberries when we’re just starting to get peckish but hadn’t thought to ring down for them yet.”

“Practically psychic. Got it. Very strict criteria, Michael. You’re devilishly hard to please.” He turns his head just enough that his hair tickles Michael’s face, giving him the kind of jokey grin which might, in the past, have sent Michael into a spiral of lust and longing. 

As it is, it’s like playing lovers. 

Or maybe they are lovers, no acting required. 

They’re too old for a ridiculous label like ‘friends with benefits.’ And Michael isn’t sure there’ll be much of a shelf-life for them once the visit is over. There are too many complicating factors. 

David shifts in his arms, saying something else about the butler’s qualifications, and Michael makes an effort to push aside his melancholy thoughts, at least for the moment. All of that can be dealt with later, and he doesn’t want to waste the time they have now.

“Wash your hair?” he asks, plucking a little piece of grass from behind David’s ear and dropping it over the side of the bath. 

“Oh, I don’t think butlers do that sort of thing, do they? That’s more a valet.” 

Michael snorts. “I meant me. Do you want me to wash your hair?” 

David is quiet for a moment, like the idea has surprised him. “All right. That’d be nice.” He slides back against Michael until his head is partially submerged, and when he resurfaces, his hair is sleek and wet, making him look a bit like a seal. 

There are several shampoos in varying organic styles and fragrances, and Michael selects one of the less obtrusive ones and squirts a bit into his hand. He urges David forward a little to give himself some room, and then starts massaging his scalp. 

David lets out a little groan of pleasure. His shoulders relax, head tilting backward. Michael is careful, not wanting to get any suds in his eyes, and he takes his time, working the soap into a thick, rich lather. 

“Bloody hell, that feels amazing,” David mutters. He’s got his eyes closed, and Michael presses an impulsive kiss against his cheek. 

“I used to moonlight as a hairdresser in acting school.” 

“Did you?” David asks, his voice going high in the way it does when he’s genuinely surprised. 

“Yes. I was a stylist for all of the greats. Olivier. Guinness. Burton.” 

David smiles. “Tennant.” 

“You’re quite the feather in my cap.” 

Michael rinses his hands and presses gently on David’s shoulders. “Rinse.” 

David dips under the water, and comes up rubbing his eyes, still with suds in his hair. He turns to Michael and gives him a kiss on the lips - just a peck, but it’s enough to make Michael warm. 

“Your turn?” 

“Are you sure?” Michael says. “It’s pretty dense in there. Wouldn’t want you to lose a finger.”

David turns around and takes the bottle off the shelf. “Take my chances,” he says. 

It’s weirdly more intimate face to face, David’s entire focus on him. David’s fingers move through his hair, digging to find his scalp and scrub little circles against it. Michael closes his eyes so he doesn't laugh at David’s concentration face, which includes a fair bit of nostril flare, and ruin the moment, but when David moves right to his nape, laughter is the last thing on his mind.   
It must show in his expression because David hums approval, his hands sliding free of Michael’s hair until he’s cradling Michael’s neck with both his hands. “Ok?” he says, thumbs shifting against his skin. 

When Michael opens his eyes, David is very close. At that range, his eyes are very brown and very lethal. It reminds Michael of the first time David looked straight at him, leaving him standing holding a plate, thinking: _god. Shit. What?_

Michael swallows and David bumps their noses together. 

“‘I’m really glad I came, by the way,” David says. “Did I say that before?” 

“Maybe. But you can say it again.” 

“I’m glad I came.” 

“I bet.” Michael gives him a sly grin, unable to resist, and David flicks him with soapy water. 

“That’s the last time I tell you about my dreams.” 

“I don’t believe that for one moment.” 

Their noses bump again, and Michael tilts his head to draw closer and give David a proper kiss, half aware that his hair probably looks ridiculous filled with suds and standing up on all ends, but not really caring. David hums against his lips and opens his mouth, his hands cupping Michael’s jaw as their tongues tangle wetly together. God, David is a good kisser. He feels so good, Michael starts getting hard again. He’s pretty sure that David is as well, because one of his hands suddenly disappears under the water and it’s obvious he’s touching himself. Michael wraps his arms around David’s back and pulls him closer, but at that moment the soap in his hair decides to make itself known by dripping into his eyes. 

“Mmm,” he says, breaking away reluctantly. “Better rinse.” 

David obliges, giving him a little space, and as Michael slips under the water, he feels David’s hands on the tops of his thighs, tantalizingly close to his prick, and he almost inhales a lungful.

“Fuck,” he says, coming up for air. “What will the butler say when he finds me drowned?” 

“And in such an indelicate state,” David says, gripping him and giving him a slow stroke. 

Michael sighs. “There’ll be an inquest.” 

“We’d better resolve the situation, then. Shall we?” 

The bath has grown tepid, and as loathe as Michael is to leave the circle of David’s arms, he’s also not a fan of underwater wanks and the chafing that can result. “Shall we get out? Find someplace a bit more comfortable?” 

David is almost as ungainly dismounting a bath as getting in, but he looks uncommonly good with a towel around his waist and damp hair in his eyes. Michael almost suggests that they do it there right by the sink, but there’s a rather large window and having already exposed his arse to the countryside, it feels better not to push his luck. After a quick rub down with a towel that’s really not large enough to cover his modesty, he takes David’s hand. “I don’t believe I gave you a proper showing of the bedroom yet.” 

“No,” David says, inching in for a kiss. “The tour has been terrible. Very slack.”

“I’ll have the butler see to it as a matter of utmost urgency. Wouldn’t want you to leave unsatisfied.”

David murmurs agreement against his mouth.

Michael lets David sink against him and explore both his mouth and the limits of his patience for a moment before tugging him out of the bathroom and back into the guest room. It’s at the back of the house, the sun just starting to set beyond the net curtains in the window. As soon as they’re there, David kisses him again with renewed urgency, his hands roaming down Michael’s chest. He follows with his mouth, and before Michael’s even had a chance to adjust to that, he’s on his knees.

David blinks up at Michael and licks his lips, then mouths over the bulge tenting the front of Michael’s towel. He breathes hot over the material, and Michael gusts out an exhale, watching as David does his best to drive him out of his mind. 

“Christ,” Michael says as David finally tugs the towel away. It falls to the floor, and David grabs Michael’s bobbing prick at the base, holding it steadily and bringing it to his lips. He closes his eyes as he takes just the tip inside, working his tongue around in slow, tantalising circles, and Michael can’t help reaching out. David doesn’t seem to mind the hands in his hair. He makes a pleased, humming sound and takes Michael further down, and Michael watches, rapt, as he’s engulfed in the warm, silky heat of David’s mouth. 

It isn’t surprising that David is good at this. He’s good at everything. And once he starts to build up a rhythm, stroking the bit of Michael’s cock he can’t fit in his mouth, Michael realises that David is not only good--he enjoys it. Immensely. There are certain tricks he doesn’t expect, like when David leaves off for a moment only to suck on the taut skin of Michael’s bollocks. He takes one, and then the other, into his mouth, letting each go with an obscene popping sound that leaves them glistening and aching. Michael groans loudly at the sensation. He’s always loved it. 

“Like that, do you?” David says, his breath hot against Michael’s skin.

“Yeah. Just a bit. You can - ah - do that some more.” David does, licking at him and squeezing gently. He’s watching Michael the whole time, looking a bit like the cat who got the cream. His tongue is absurdly, beautifully long, and it isn’t Michael’s fault that he imagines it somewhere else, what that might feel like. He’s already right on the edge, and that particular fantasy isn’t helping. 

Once Michael’s bollocks are properly adored, David teases behind and presses one wet finger against the crease of Michael’s arse, almost, but not quite, penetrating. 

“What about this?” he asks. 

“That’s good. Yeah.” He pets his hands gently through David’s hair, and David presses into the touch. 

“I don’t mind if you’re a little rough, Michael. Go ahead and pull.” 

“Shit, okay,” Michael says, and he does. 

David lets out a little groan and starts to suck again, this time with intent, and Michael tosses his head back and guides him, thighs tense and quaking. He rocks into David’s mouth and then back onto his finger more urgently, and when it slips inside, Michael is lost. He holds David tightly to him, and he comes with a shattering force, pumping his hips while David takes it all, eyes shining and pleased. 

Michael feels as though he’s just run a fifty yard dash. His heart is pounding in his chest, and not only because of the orgasm - because of the desire and intent look on David’s face, the way he carefully pulls back, giving Michael’s sensitive cock a final kiss. His own towel has fallen away, and Michael can see he’s beyond hard, probably painfully so. 

“Get up here,” he says. “Let me take care of you.” 

David’s fingers dig into Michael’s waist as he gets to his feet, clinging to him like he needs the contact to stay on his feet. He leans in for a kiss, eyes full of questions. Michael answers by threading his fingers into the hair at David’s nape and kissing him long and hard. He lets one hand wander down to where David’s straining, rubbing against his hip to take the edge off, lets the pads of his fingers trail over the smooth skin of his cock. He thinks David might have the prettiest dick he’s ever had the pleasure of touching and he wonders idly if David might let him take a picture. Or better still, take one on his own and send it when he’s back at home. It’d be a little blurry, maybe, suggest that his hands were shaking with desire and nerves. Michael wraps his fingers around at the thought, a loose ring for David to thrust into.

David does, pulls away, burying his face in Michael’s shoulder with a needy little whine, his breath hot and fast against Michael’s skin. 

Michael’s tempted to drag it out, to take him right to the edge and then stop, see how many times he might be able to do that before David can’t take any more and begs him for release. Two or three, he thinks, at least--although knowing how David likes to overachieve, there’s a chance they might reach double figures if they really went for it. He puts the thought to one side for now, tightens his grip a little. “Better?” he says and David nods against his neck, arms coming up to wrap around. 

For a moment Michael just lets a rhythm build, letting the movement of David’s hips guide him. He thumbs over the tip and feels a shudder go through David’s entire body, his breath catching, and Michael wonders if he ever did this, looked down at his own fist and imagined it was Michael’s. 

“Turn around,” Michael says, a little breathlessly. “I want to see what you see when you do this.” 

David swallows but goes with it eagerly, settling back against him like he did in the bath, damp ends of his hair tickling Michael’s nose. 

Reaching for him again, Michael hooks his chin over David’s shoulder. He has to stand on his tiptoes to do it, but the view is worth it, the head of David’s cock sticking out of the circle of his fingers. Besides, he’s positive it won’t take very long at all and sore calves tomorrow is a small price to pay. 

“Show me,” Michael whispers. “Show me what you do.”

David exhales hard, his mouth hanging open as he drops his hand to cover Michael’s. He’s both rougher and faster than Michael would’ve been, but ever one to take a scene partner’s suggestion and run full force with it, Michael picks it up. It only takes a moment to have David near panting, and Michael wraps the other arm around him too, scratching over his stomach before heading up over his ribs to pinch at one of his nipples. 

David must be close because his whole body tenses and he writhes back against Michael, like it’s asking for something. Thinking of what David said about not needing to be a gentleman, Michael bites at the juncture of his neck and his shoulder, turning it into a kiss as David shouts out and starts to spill over his fingers. 

As he comes down from his orgasm, Michael feels oddly proud of him, the feeling spreading through him from his stomach. He wants to stay there indefinitely, watching David’s chest heave and his hands shake, but his legs feel dangerously close to cramping, so he eases back onto his heels and peppers kisses along David’s shoulder, licking and letting his beard scrape across the skin until David shivers. 

David drops his head back and stares at the ceiling. “Bloody hell,” he says, and Michael has no option but to chuckle against his freckles. 

He presses a final kiss there, soothing the beard-roughened patch of skin, and then leans down to retrieve one of their fallen towels to wipe away the mess. David does the same. When they turn back to face each other, Michael reaches out to brush back the hair falling in David’s eyes and tuck it behind his ear. There are some strands of silver in it now that he isn’t dyeing it for a role, and it becomes him. David flushes a little under the inspection, so Michael withdraws and gives him a little space to get himself together. 

“Hungry?” Michael asks, wrapping the towel back around his waist, feeling oddly vulnerable. He’s not sure why - nothing in David’s demeanor suggests he regrets what they’ve done - but sex with someone he cares about always leaves him a little raw right after. Maybe it’s the inevitable separation, the withdrawing into oneself after a moment of intense connection. Whatever it is, Michael has no desire for David to notice, and so he smiles and finishes his thought. “I’ve got pasta, some leftover roast chicken and some other bits and bobs we could put together. As you know, I’m a purely mediocre chef, but I promise to at least give you an edible block of cheese if everything else is crap.” 

“I’m famished,” David says, sounding it. “I promise I won’t even tease you about the onions if you cook for me.” 

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” 

“Touche.”

*

They regroup in the kitchen twenty minutes later. Michael is already gathering items from cupboards and trying to find the good saucepan when David comes in, dressed in a soft-looking pair of joggers and a Bowie tee. Just the sight of him makes Michael’s belly squirm. He looks frightfully good and relaxed, his hair still tousled and drying from the bath. Michael wants nothing more than to sink his fingers into it and back him against the counter, but if they get started with that they will never eat, and if they never eat, they will certainly not have the stamina for what Michael hopes will come next. 

He locates the pan with an “ah-ha!” and sends David to the wine cabinet for another bottle. 

After the popping of corks and clinking of glasses, they settle into an easy conversation about their latest projects while Michael chops and sautes and does his best to look dashing as he does so. He is a mediocre cook - that much is not a lie - but he has gotten better over the last few months out of necessity, and he wants David to be surprised, if not impressed. 

“This is my favourite,” David says, nibbling a bit of cheddar from the plate of various things Michael has set out. “I can’t believe you remembered.” 

Michael shrugs, not sure whether it is odd or not that he has. He takes a sip of wine as the onions and garlic in the pan sizzle. “You ate your weight in it on the Good Omens set. I worried you might not be able to function without it.” 

“Funny you should mention that. If I don’t have enough cheese, I go into a comatose state.” 

“See? I was just looking out for your health as a proper host.” 

David takes another bit of cheese and a sip of wine and makes a contented sound. “Setting a tough standard for the new butler to meet.” 

Michael smiles at him and tosses a handful of chopped chicken into the pan. He pushes it around before adjusting the temperature on the pasta so it bubbles a touch less ferociously. He’s still getting the hang of the stove here, but at least he’s no longer incinerating every single thing he puts on it. 

“Want me to set the table?” David says, throwing the final chunk of cheese into the air and catching it into his mouth. 

“Oh it’s a set the table kind of dinner, is it?” Michael says. 

David raises an eyebrow. “Why? What kind did you have in mind?” 

Michael hums. Idly he’d indulged a fancy about sitting on the sofa with David’s feet in his lap and being fed from David’s fork, but he glances outside. “Stopped raining,” he says. “There’s a little table under the big tree. We could watch the sun set and--”

“Sold,” David says. He reaches past Michael for the wine bottle and pulls open various drawers until he finds the one with the cutlery in, rattling around in it for enough to make a set. It takes an almost embarrassingly long amount of time and Michael makes a silent vow to actually buy some more spoons instead of just thinking it every time he can’t find one. “Back in a mo,” he says.

Michael watches him duck out through the French windows and pad down the garden in his bare feet. He wasn’t sure what David would think of it here, if he’d seem wildly out of place, but it suits him, being surrounded by foliage, the evening sunshine dappling through and bringing out the gold in his hair. David pauses under the tree, staring at the trunk for a moment before locating the table and setting the wine and the cutlery on it. 

Turning his attention back to dinner, Michael listens for him coming back. He takes his time about it, but eventually his footsteps echo on the wooden floor of the lounge.

“Why--” David looks back at the window as if checking something. “Why is there a… a… I want to say set of handcuffs on your tree but I don’t know if that’s the right word?” He frowns and reaches for his wine glass. “They look… sort of more industrial than the kind you’d usually expect.” 

“You see a lot of handcuffs on trees where you live?”

“No,” David says, taking a sip of his wine. “That’s my point.” 

Michael raises an eyebrow and hands him a plate of steaming food, then takes one for himself along with a fistful of napkins from the counter. “It’s a modified pillory. This house is almost three hundred years old. That tree out there, and those handcuffs, or whatever you want to call them, were used to shackle lamb poachers. Old Welsh tradition, used when there weren’t any nearby jails to speak of.” He motions with his head and David follows him back out to the garden. 

“Really?” David’s voice sounds fascinated. He absolutely, one hundred percent believes the story, and it is so incredibly sweet, Michael can’t bear to keep up the ruse. 

“No. I think the people who lived here before we did were a kinky sort.” 

David lets out a little laugh from behind him. “Kinkier than you?” 

“Why, you want to try them out?” 

They’ve come back to the tree in question, and David sets down his plate and wine across from Michael. It’s a small table, and their knees brush together as they both sit and arrange themselves. 

David lifts his fork. “I’m a little disappointed they’re not yours, honestly.” 

“If you want me to tie you up to a tree and fuck you, you only have to ask.” The words spill out of his mouth before Michael can stop them; he’s too used to blathering nonsense to David, and while yes, he really is hoping that there will be some sort of fucking over the next two days, he also is aware that bringing it up over dinner isn’t exactly a done thing. At least, not for them. Yet. 

But apparently it is now, and far from being embarrassed, David’s heated look gives the game away. 

“You do want that. Shit, David. How do you expect me to eat this pasta with that little fantasy playing around in my head?” 

“I expect you to eat fast.” 

“You minx.” 

“Again, not the one with Welsh pseudo-pillory sex tree in my garden.” 

“And what would the sheep think!” 

The two of them drink from their glasses simultaneously, eyeing each other from over the rim, and Michael picks up his fork and takes a bite. The pasta is well seasoned and al dente, if only just, and he suddenly realises how famished he is. It’s enough to refocus his attention to eating, though his hindbrain is still very much repeating the last several minutes of their conversion on a loop, and ridiculously, he’s half hard. He hasn’t been this randy since he was in his twenties. 

The sky is streaked with pink and orange and the dusk is rapidly darkening to night around them. David remarks on the food, and their conversation drifts away from the topic of sex to cooking, and children, and their lives, but all Michael can think of is David in his bed. He really would rather have him there, so they could take their time, rather than hard and fast outside like . . . well, like rutting rams. Though he wouldn’t be opposed to that for their second time. He eyes the tree and chews, thinking logistics. His thoughts must show on his face, because David trails off in the middle of a story he’d been telling and places his hand on Michael’s knee. 

“If you’d rather, I’ll fuck you,” David says, perhaps picking up the wrong end of the stick. “I’m not opposed.” 

Michael clears his throat. “Either is fine with me. But before, you seemed to want—”

“Yeah, if that’s good for you.” 

“I think it would be more than good for me,” Michael says. The second the words are out, he wonders if it’s too much, if his voice and his eyes are too soft, but David squeezes his knee under the table. 

“I think I would be fantastic, for you,” David replies, and the shifting emphasis is enough to make Michael lean across the table and kiss him. 

He lets it linger, licking the wine off David’s lips and enjoying the tightening of David’s fingers on his knee, the way his thumb digs in and rubs a little circle against the inside of his thigh. He lets his mind wander to the cold clasp of metal around David’s wrists, how it would feel under his own fevered touch, has to stop the thought before it gets out of control and makes him abandon their dinner and do something silly like have David on the table in a puddle of pasta sauce. He pulls back, warmed by the way David keeps his eyes closed for a moment longer before picking up his fork again.

“You think it’s a bit dark to do it tonight?” David says. 

Michael acts giving it more thought than he actually does, not wanting to let on how much he wants to be able to see every inch of David if they go ahead with it. “Perhaps.” 

“Hmmm. Before we go in, though, ” David says, waving a speared pasta shape at him, “we should try them out, see if they fit ok and the lock hasn’t rusted to hell.”

“You want to do a run-through? On sex?”

Michael stares at him but really he’s not sure why he’s surprised. Of course David wants to get it right. Of course he does.

“Blocking is important,” David says, like a slightly miffed drama teacher. “We wouldn’t want to come out here all excited and then find we can’t do the thing we came out to do because one of us can’t reach or there are nettles neither of us noticed that would leave a rash in an unfortunate place.”

“I might be into a little nettle tickle on my nethers, actually.” 

“Well you would be,” David says. 

“Oh, so you’re tie me to a tree kinky but plant-based shenanigans is going too far?”

“I’m not a heathen, Michael,” David says and Michael laughs.

The crickets have started to sing, and the air is humid from all the rain. Michael’s skin prickles as David stands and goes to the tree for an inspection. “They are a bit on the rusty side,” he says. “You don’t have a key for these, do you?” 

Michael sighs. The jig is up. “Not even a little bit.” 

David grins and jangles the chain. “But we could pretend. We are actors, after all.” 

Michael watches him for a long moment - the smile slowly fades, replaced with something more intent. Their wine glasses and plates are both empty, but Michael’s heart and mind are so full of this man, who utterly trusts him, who would do something this sexy and ridiculous, who would come all this way during this hard time to see him. His friend. Definitely something more now. 

Another beat passes, and David lets out a frustrated noise and shakes his hips. 

“Impatient are we?” Michael chuckles. 

“Actually, I think I just got bitten by a mosquito.” 

“Nasty buggers. I’m the only one allowed to bite you.” 

“Promises, promises.” 

Michael stands up and nearly knocks over the little table as he does. It’s bloody dark, and even the light from the house doesn’t quite penetrate this far into the garden. The sky is the deepest colour blue can be before it fades to black. 

God, and David is presenting himself so shamelessly, arching his back and thrusting out his arse. Michael comes up behind him and puts his hands on David’s hips. Immediately, David grinds back against him, and that bit of friction is all Michael needs to go from partially to fully hard in seconds. 

Michael soothes his hands up and down David’s sides, and then cups the globes of his arse, spreading him. The chain rattles slightly, and Michael imagines what it would be like if they were naked, if he had David ready and prepped and he could just slide inside. 

“Look at you,” Michael says, lowering his voice as he leans over David’s back. “You’d really let me fuck you like this, wouldn’t you? Out here in the open, You’d love it.” 

“Yeah. I would.” 

“Would you want me to go hard?” Michael snaps his hips in mimicry, and David lets out a little breathy pant, so Michael does it again, and again. His cock prods against David’s arse, trapped as it is in his shorts, and he is once again amazed at himself - how he can be this eager and ready after being so satisfied. “Would you want me to come inside you?” 

“Fuck, Michael. Don’t - you’re gonna make me come and I don’t even have my cock out.” 

“We can’t have that. We have to get you ready first. You want to go back inside?” 

David looks over his shoulder, the whites of his eyes standing out in the darkness. “Yeah,” he says. “Let’s - yes - do that. I can’t deal with this face looking at me anyway. It’s worse than the sheep.” 

Michael laughs - a full-on belly laugh. Jack the tree spirit is such a part of the landscape, Michael hardly even notices him now. But now that he has noticed, it is very clear that Jack is judging them. “Fair point.” He squeezes David’s arse one more time and gives him a kiss on the back of the neck as he straightens and drops the chain. “Let’s leave the plates for now. The butler will get them.” 

David kisses him back. “Thank god for the butler.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, and here we are with another chapter. Thanks for your patience as we attempt to negotiate work, life, and the fickle muse. There will be more, so stay tuned...

Inside, it is a tangle of limbs and hungry mouths as they make their way, not very gracefully, to the living room, because a trek upstairs is much too far at the moment. David is already pulling at his clothes by the time they get to Michael’s favourite overstuffed leather armchair, and they seem to have the same idea at the same time, because Michael finds himself manhandled gently down onto it, his shirt discarded in a pile along with David’s, and then David is on his lap, straddling him. They kiss like that, desperate and filthy, their tongues tangling as they grind their cocks together through their clothes. Far too many clothes, still, Michael decides. He undoes his fly and groans with relief to finally get a hand on himself, and he pulls his dick out. 

David’s hand joins his own, giving him a long, firm stroke, and then David whispers, “Do you have anything down here?” 

“There’s some lube in the side table. Condoms too.” 

“I like someone who is always prepared.” 

“Well.” He’s not going to say that he replenished supplies hoping for this exact moment, but maybe it wouldn't matter if he did. They are clearly on the same page. David stands and starts to shimmy out of his joggers, and Michael watches, entranced, as his cock slaps his stomach. It’s sexy and awkward, and as David rummages around in the drawer, Michael holds his stiff cock, contemplating positions. Forward facing has the benefit of kissing, of course, but reverse holds its own charms as well. He decides he’ll leave it up to David, who returns seconds later with a packet of lube and no condom.

“You’re sure?” 

“Yeah. I mean, it’s good for me, if it’s good for you.” 

“Um, yeah, I’d say I’m okay with it.” Michael welcomes David back onto his lap, and reaches up to bring him into another kiss. David’s stubble rasps against his lips. It’s delightful, kissing roughly, the firm and hard press of David’s body against his own. David touches his chest and tweaks his nipples, rubs his hands up and down Michael’s sides. Michael can feel his cock leaving trails of wetness on his stomach. He reaches around to tease the rim of David’s hole with his finger, and David rips the packet of lube with his teeth. 

“Here,” he says. 

In other circumstances, like not being painfully hard, Michael would enjoy watching David, seeing his long fingers disappear inside his body. God, there are so many things he hopes they get the chance to do together. As it is, he’s not sure his patience is up to it, so he holds his fingers out for David, watching as he squeezes the lube out in a manner that’s a little over eager. 

David shifts on the seat, resting the remains of the packet on the arm and maneuvering to make it easier for Michael to reach, guiding his hand around the globe of his arse. He shivers as Michael touches him, which Michael guesses has more to do with the temperature of the lube than his touch, and kisses Michael hard as he starts to press inside. 

It’s been a while since Michael did this to anyone but himself, so he takes it slower than he would’ve in his youth, enjoying the way David moans into his mouth and eases back against his fingers, trying to take him deeper already. David’s dick rubs against his stomach and Michael mouths down his throat, dallying on his shoulder to better enjoy the view. 

David’s movement grows impatient and, ever the accommodating scene partner, Michael lets his fingers slip free. He reaches for the discarded packet and drizzles what’s left of the lube over his erection, eyes fluttering closed as he works it down the length, praying he won’t come embarrassingly quickly once he’s inside. He guides David’s hips, but lets David reach around and position him, watching David’s face as he sinks down with a satisfied expression. David can’t take him in all the way on the first try, lifts himself up, bracing his hands on the back of the chair either side of Michael’s head before lowering down again with a groan that Michael feels in his own ribs. 

It seems like David’s intent on doing all the work, and Michael is very much ok with that. He settles his hands on David’s hips, thumbing over his skin and watching as David establishes a rhythm, moving fast enough to make the chair creak.

David flicks his hair to one side and it bounces back so nicely Michael can’t help but gape at it.

“Your hair looks incredible,” Michael says, a little breathlessly. 

“Maybe he’s born with it,” David replies, “maybe it’s quarantine.”

Michael’s chuckle turns into a groan as David squeezes around him, and he rests his head back against the chair, his desire mingling with delight. He can’t quite believe he has this man in his lap; even his most hopeful fantasies had never quite gotten to this point. It feels better than he would ever have imagined, too - the rasp of David’s thighs against his own, the hot velvet clench of his body. And then there is David himself, who is an utter delight, more shameless than the David of his fantasies. He is riding Michael like he really means it, like he won’t ever get enough. And damn, that thought is almost enough to push Michael over the edge.

“Fuck, I needed this,” David says, leaning forward in a private whisper as he takes Michael all of the way down. “You feel so good inside me.” He licks the lobe of Michael’s ear with his warm tongue, then sucks it into his mouth while he grinds on Michael’s cock. 

Michael lifts his hips a little, and David almost keens. He’s hit the spot, then. “Yeah? You like that?” 

“Your cock is so bloody thick.” 

And doesn’t that make Michael just a bit proud? It’s ridiculous but he can’t help it. David seems to lose himself a little, then, circling his hips as Michael starts to fuck up into him, or as well as he can given their respective positions. It’s difficult to get the purchase he really wants - maybe later he’ll get David on his hands and knees - but it’s also wonderful, because it’s holding off the inevitable. David obviously likes it; his prick is leaking a steady stream of slick onto Michael’s belly, and he curses when Michael wraps a hand around him and gives him a few exploratory strokes.

“Don’t wanna come yet,” David says, almost whining. 

Michael bites his lower lip hard enough to send a spike of pain through his body. It’s the only way to stop the tightening in his lower belly, the ache in his balls. He removes his hand obligingly and takes David by his narrow waist, shaking him a little back and forth to get nice and deep, and then jostling him up and down on his lap. David goes with it, mouth falling open and eyes fluttering closed. His neck is so tempting, covered with stubble, and Michael leans forward to feel it against his lips. He tries not to lose focus on the rhythm they’ve set, but everything about David is very distracting. His hair falls over his face, a screen of silk that smells of Michael’s shampoo. His shoulder blade juts out temptingly, just begging for Michael’s tongue to trace it. 

It is a good thing they are alone, because they are really making quite a racket. Luckily the armchair is sturdy, because he isn’t sure he wants to have to explain why it’s broken, though Anna would likely find it funny. David’s sounds get louder, and soon he is moaning with every thrust. His thighs shake under Michael’s fingers. He is so beautiful, and Michael is so fucked. 

The pressure builds until it’s impossible to hold back. Michael lets out an inarticulate warning, just in case David doesn’t want him to come inside, but David just holds on tighter and bears down on him, and the orgasm overtakes him with white-hot, throbbing pleasure. He is vaguely aware of things going slick and warm, and David is breathing unsteadily, fisting his own prick. 

“Don’t pull out, don’t pull out,” David begs. Michael watches, dazed and sensitive as David chases his own release, grinding down on Michael’s softening cock as he starts to come, spattering Michael’s stomach. 

There’s a moment of perfect soft silence as they both gather their breath and their thoughts, and David tips forward to rest his head on Michael’s shoulder. They’re both sweatier than Michael realised, and he can’t tell whose hair is sticking to his temple. He strokes up over David’s side, imagining the sheen across the freckles on his back and ignoring the protest in his thighs about not sufficiently warming up for this level of exertion. David’s hot breath fans across his skin as he turns his head, lifting it just enough to land a sloppy kiss in the vicinity of Michael’s mouth. 

“God,” David says, and very lightly he starts to laugh, lips bumping against Michael’s. 

“What?” Michael says, brushing his hair back from his face.

David meets his eye, or as best he can from the end of Michael’s nose. “Nothing,” he says. “Just—” For a second, his face goes very serious, as if he’s about to make an earnest proclamation, but then his gaze falls away to where their thighs are squashed between the arms of the chair. “I’m just a little bit concerned about how we’re going to get up.” 

“Sticky dismount,” Michael says, and David rewards him with another chuckle before pressing his face back into Michael’s neck. “Better stay where you are, then,” Michael murmurs, wrapping an arm around him and giving him a squeeze, which he hopes is a sufficient reply to whatever it is David really wanted to say. 

The clock ticks on the mantle. It’s still earlyish, but a day filled with orgasms and emotions, however unspoken, has left Michael exhausted and in need of his bed. He wonders if David wants that too, and if he should suggest it, but a muffled yawn against his shoulder saves him the trouble. 

“Tired?” 

“Mmm. Yeah. You?” 

“A bit. Do you want to sleep with me? No obligation, really, if you’d rather the spare—” 

“No,” David says, looking up at him. “I’d like to, but I feel I have to warn you I’m a bit of a clinger.” 

“Are we talking octopus level?” 

“About.” 

Michael pretends to consider it. “To be honest, I’m fond of cephalopods. You’re in.” 

“Smashing.” 

They still don’t make a move, and by now Michael has softened and slipped out, and there is certainly a mess on the chair. He tries to decide how to deal with it with some degree of finesse, but then David is reaching for the nearby tissues and making quick work of things. He’s completely unselfconscious, as though it’s an everyday occurrence for him to be standing in front of Michael and wiping up their mingled fluids. He offers Michael some tissues and Michael comes back to life, doing what is necessary all the while his mind reels with what they’ve just shared and the prospect of the night ahead. 

Questions that he hasn’t considered before start to poke intrusively into his thoughts. Many of them are off-limits. He isn’t going to ask David about what this means, whether there can be anything between them in the future, if he and Georgia have any hard limits about feelings, if feelings are involved. He knows that’s true for many couples with open arrangements - he and Anna notwithstanding. And he doesn’t know what that means for him, if he would be willing to keep his thoughts to himself to have this again with David, or if he is even capable of keeping his feelings to himself when they threaten to spill out over David’s skin every time they touch.

Suddenly, he has a lapful of David again, and he is jarred into the present. David kisses him open-mouthed and filthy, and if he were a much younger man, he wouldn’t have any problem settling in for yet another round. As it is, he is inspired. He wraps his arms tightly around David and, with an effort that will probably cost him dearly the following day, lifts them both up and out of the chair, so that David’s only option is to cling to him more tightly, long legs looped around his waist. 

“My god that was sexy,” David whispers in his ear, and so Michael has no other choice but to continue on towards the stairs, his legs and back protesting but willing to take on the challenge. 

He doesn’t dare speak, and somehow they make it to the top and down the hall to the bedroom, laughing and straining and slippery. Luckily the moon lights the way enough that Michael doesn’t stumble. He manages one more burst of energy and tosses David onto the bed, then folds down onto it himself, breathless and giddy. They grin at each other, only their eyes and smiles visible in the dark.

Michael wants to say something about what a miracle it is that there was no wooden block or toy dinosaur laying in wait for him to trip over, but instead he pushes David’s hair behind his ear. He can’t quite believe that this is real, that David is actually here within an arm’s reach. “Ok?” he says.

“Yeah,” David murmurs, “but I’m not the one who just carried us upstairs.” 

“My knees may never forgive me.”

So he doesn’t just keep staring into David’s endlessly deep eyes, Michael reaches for the edge of the duvet. Shimmying up the bed to get underneath it is a touch undignified, but David following him eagerly, folding his long legs under the covers and shaking out his hair makes up for it.

“I believe I was promised clinging,” Michael says as he settles back against the pillows, and obligingly, David shuffles over and drapes himself across Michael’s chest. 

It seems within the realm of acceptable behaviour to run his fingers through David’s hair and so he does, watching as it glints in the moonlight and falls back against his head. He hopes David never cuts it, although he knows that eventually he will, that his appearance is never truly his own. David hums, breath tumbling against his skin, and it’s not long before they both drift to sleep, alone with their own thoughts.


End file.
